The Maiden of the Whip
by Quita
Summary: A poetic look at the concept of Sara having remained sentient after her soul merged with the Whip of Alchemy to form the Vampire Killer.


**The Maiden of the Whip**

**A poetic headcanon: if Sara remained sentient after her soul was merged with the whip of alchemy to form the Vampire Killer.**  
I intended this to be really, really, really sad, but I'm not sure if I attained even the slightest insight as to what a person would feel if in her place.  
(Recommended: putting on a couple of the saddest Castlevania, etc, songs you can think of. _De-a lungul Vieţii_ from A.D Pachislot 3 inspired the latter half.)

* * *

The endless night of her slumber was cold, leaving her with nothing but an unrelenting empty feeling, shadowed by deep longing, as if her loved one had once lain beside her… only to disappear with nary a word or trace left behind.

It had been so long since she had shed her corporeal body and so long since she could recall being her true self - able to laugh, able to love, able to feel. The endless cycle of ebony-shaded oblivion and hot-white holy wrath over the ages had twisted her further from the person she had once been. Moments of clarity eluded her most times, and all she could even recall of her since-passed love, Leon, was his kind smile… and his voice calling out a vengeful oath that the Belmont clan would forever hunt the night.

The tragic maiden had not wanted others to suffer her fate. That was still her resolve, even in her most far-gone ascensions into the chaotic side of the light; the part that existed to destroy all children of the night. Part of her had always stood with those who wielded her weapon, her power filling them with light and love…and a burning righteous fury against those who clung to the darkness and threatened humanity with their ill intent.

In later years she could feel her power refuse those who were not 'pure' Belmonts; those of the lineage of her dear Leon. Brother clans disturbed her thoughts and her dreams as she restlessly slumbered in her secluded cocoon of agony that was lost in a timeless oblivion, these other warriors forcefully tapping into her power to wield her, regardless of her latent retribution towards such arrogance and ill manners.  
At one time she would have abhorred the power lashing out … but she no longer felt anything towards the matter. She was losing herself more and more with every passing century…

But then she was becoming so very tired and weary. Would this cycle with Mathias never end?  
Would he never receive his overdue justice, and by no small miracle, seek absolution?

Finally in the late 1900s, a young Belmont who bore enough of the lineage took up her whip, surprisingly gentle with the item despite his rugged looks and mannerisms. After what she had endured with the previous few wielders, the spirit of the whip felt slight relief in coming by this young Belmont's hands.

He trained in earnest, preparing for a fated day that he and his comrades had come to believe as a means to an end, an eclipse that would be a huge foil the Lord of Darkness's resurrection cycle.

The night before they were to set out to the demon fortress, the spirit of the whip mustered some of her strength to ease the young man from suffering his fitful sleep any longer. She materialized, ghostlike, kneeling by his bedside, stroking errant strands of his brown hair off his sweat-soaked brow.  
Awakening, he did not startle nor ask whom the strange ethereal woman was, as he felt the power of the whip emanating from her. He greeted her_'M'lady'_, and said nothing more for he knew when to listen.

_'__Julius, I am so tired.'_ The spirit responded, her expression indeed that of a young woman who had lost everything and had persisted within the realms of the mortal coil for far too long. _'I have faith in you. And I will guide your hand. You can do this.'_  
The smallest of smiles graced the young vampire hunter's lips, his eyes however reflecting his own uncertainty.  
_'Sleep now.'_ The spirit whispered, touching a hand to his shoulder and giving a little squeeze in reassurance before fading, and her essence returning to the 'blessed' whip which sat across the room with the rest of the hunter's gear.

At the pinnacle of the final fight, the maiden supported the chosen Belmont as promised, exuding as much of her power as she could to allow him to stretch himself further than he ever had managed before.  
Unfortunately, things soon took a turn for the worse, causing her to materialize behind her battered wielder as if to help him back to his feet, trying not to spare a glance at his unconscious companions.

When all seemed hopeless, the throne room brightened intensely to reveal a host of ethereal vampire hunters from eons past surrounding the young man and the spirit of his weapon.

Julius stood, having a tender grasp on the hand the ghostly maiden had offered him, staring around in awe at what he knew in his heart to be the echoes of his ancestors and their past brothers in arms. He felt his wounds heal, and his companions also stood once more, reinvigorated by the presence of the full and extended Belmont clan.

One medieval knight, clad in shining armor and a tabard of blue and white, stepped forth from the crowd; a concerned look on his face as he approached the spirit of the whip, extending a hand out to her.  
The maiden went still as she gazed upon the familiar face from her past, fury fading from her glowing eyes as she looked upon the golden sun hair and piercing blue eyes of the one she had loved most in life.  
She glanced back at Julius and let go of his hand, taking a half-step towards the blond knight to touch both her hands to his extended one for the briefest of moments, for their eyes locked and they exchanged forlorn expressions just before the Belmont host vanished from sight.

The brief touch had caused the maiden's memories to stir and her purpose to reignite, though nothing would ever quell her lamentations of all that she and her beloved's kin had suffered and lost.  
Fighting the heart-wrenching anguish, she turned back to her wielder; tears streaming down her face, though she held her head up high. Her eyes once again reflected light of righteous fury and a finality that the young hunter had never borne witness to in his entire life. With a firm nod, he made her a silent promise that it would be over soon and she could rest.

Victory came at a heavy cost that night, for both the hunter and his weapon suffered mightily.

Julius Belmont, the one to finally staunch Dracula's resurrection cycle, lost his memories and everything he held dear.

And Sara Trantoul, the spirit maiden of the Vampire Killer whip, was denied her ascension once again.


End file.
